


The Golden Boy

by Crollalanza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death, M/F, Other, Sexual Content, Unrequited Crush, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory."  </p>
<p>The night Cedric died, four people reacted in very different ways. </p>
<p>Here are their stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story about five years ago, but I'm only now posting it on A03 because I'm sad about a few things concerning Cedric. 
> 
> Cedric Diggory was an amazing character and his pointless death still makes me cry so very much if I allow myself to think about it.

_Golden lads and lasses must_  
Like chimney sweepers come to dust.   
Cymbaline ~ William Shakespeare

 

“Is it true?” he asks.  
  
There is no answer.  
  
“Fair lady, is it true?”  
  
Pomona sighs. He is the only one to call her fair. A throwback to his days when courtesy meant something and the ladies he averted his eyes from were always ‘fair’.   
  
“He is dead,” she replies.   
  
His shock is palpable. It surprises her because death shouldn’t shock a ghost. She turns to him expecting platitudes. Something, perhaps, about how the dead are never gone, even if they don’t decide to remain behind as a pale shadow.   
  
But the Fat Friar says nothing. He is motionless, looking for all the world as stiff as Nearly Headless Nick did the year he was Petrified.   
  
She looks out of her study window and onto the back of Greenhouse Five. There is a broomstick propped against the outer glass, and she is at a loss to remember why she left it there. Somewhere she can see darting shadows, two or three perhaps, and she knows she should go outside and tell whoever it is to get back to the castle. It has gone nine o’clock and all students should be inside. But she can’t bring herself to speak. Having spent the past hour with the Diggorys, delivering heartfelt sentiments on their fine son, Pomona has no wish to talk to anyone else.  
  
“Would you please leave me, Friar?” she asks politely.   
  
“You should not be alone, Madam,” he replies, and if she didn’t know he was dead, she would swear he was crying.   
  
Reaching into her desk drawer, Pomona pulls out her silver potting knife and walks across to the Mimbulus Mimbletonia growing in the corner. It is a fine specimen, but she has neglected it recently. The Cup and possible Hufflepuff glory swept her mind clear of the mundane.   
  
“I have my plants, Friar. I am not alone.”  
  
“And you have God,” he murmurs. “I can sit here awhile and help you pr-“  
  
“NO!” she says firmly, and in a harsher tone than she intends Guiltily, she stretches her hand out to him. The irony that she cannot touch him is not lost on her, but she needs to make the gesture. “Not now, Friar. It is not the right time.”  
  
“There is no better time than this,” he says quietly, his voice soft and rippling. “At times of trouble, that is when we need our faith to guide us.”   
  
“How do I know?” she demands. “How do you know? You’re not living, Friar. You don’t tread in this world anymore. You don’t feel as we do. It has been centuries since you felt pain.”  
  
He floats towards her. “You have seen death before, Pomona. You know it is not the end.”  
  
It is the use of her first name that throws her. In all her years as Head of House, he has not addressed her so informally, preferring always to call her Madam, Professor, or Dear Lady. Not since she was a pupil has he called her Pomona.   
  
  
_They had always had a connection. It wasn’t merely about being Sorted into the same house. They were both oddities. A witch and a wizard who believed in God ... and _really_ believed. Neither observed the Muggle conventions for mere convenience. Pomona, who had a Muggle-born mother, had been brought up in a Christian household. Despite knowing she was different, and that her Church had persecuted her kind in the past, she had kept the faith of her childhood.   
  
The Fat Friar had hidden his magic for much of his life. He had entered the monastery at the behest of his father as soon as he’d left Hogwarts. As a youngest son, he could not have inherited the family estate, but he could gain a powerful position in the priesthood, and that had protected him – and the family – from the taint of witchcraft. It had been necessary in those days to believe in order to survive, but the Friar had found his faith comforting.  
  
When he had died, he had not chosen to stay because he was afraid of death. He had believed there was a reason to stay, and that was to keep his faith alive. _  
  
  
“We should pray for Mr Diggory,” he intones.  
  
“No,” she mutters. She looks down at her hands. “I will not be praying tonight.”  
  
“It is important, Pomona. You of all people know that.”  
  
“I will not be praying again, Friar. And I would like you to leave.”  
  
“Why?” he asks, surprised. Then, sounding far more impassioned than she has ever heard, he floats in front of her, and continues. “His soul is in jeopardy. We should pray.”  
  
“NO!” she shouts back. “I will not be praying to your god again. NEVER again.”  
  
“In the face of evil, in the face of grief, we need his support,” he pleads with her. But she is unmoving and walks to the steps to the side of her plant to trim the spindly stems. “What is wrong, Pomona?”  
  
She can feel a headache forming like a tight ball over one eye. She has scarcely noticed it before, but now it is pounding inside her so fiercely she wonders if her head will explode.   
  
“Cedric is DEAD,” she shouts. “The bravest, kindest, _noblest_ boy of them all. Fairer by far than any of your ‘fair ladies’, Friar. He’s dead, and it is my fault!”  
  
There is a long silence. She holds the potting knife in her hands, not realising that it is cutting into her palm until a drop of blood falls onto the carpet.   
  
“Did you murder him, Pomona?” he asks calmly. “Did you cast the curse that killed the boy?”  
  
She shakes her head.  
  
“Then why are you blaming yourself?”  
  
Pomona looks straight at him. She looks directly into his eyes, the ghostly white far more alive than the eyes of her most _prodigious_ pupil. “Ever since Cedric was chosen, I have prayed every night that he’d win. I wanted recognition for Hufflepuff and glory for my golden boy.” She pauses then, lifting up her wand, she carefully knits together her slashed skin. “My prayer was answered.”  
  
“Dear lady ...”  
  
“I will not pray again.”   
  


* * *

  
  
  
Seamus Finnigan watches as Harry lands back in the arena, cradling something in his arms. For a brief moment, Seamus is elated. Harry has the Triwizard Cup in his hand. He’s beaten the other Champions and he’s a Gryffindor! They’ll be celebrating in the common room tonight, and for several nights to come, for this is far better than merely winning the House Cup.  
  
It is Lavender’s shriek that alerts him to reality. The ‘something’ in Harry’s arms is Diggory. He isn’t moving.  
  
Dean swears. Neville gasps. Parvati is sobbing. Seamus sits there.  
  
“He’s dead,” Lavender cries.  
  
He wants to laugh at her, tell her she’s overreacting again. That it’s the same as that time in Hogsmeade where she thought she saw a Grim but it turned out to be a black, shaggy dog. Of course, he hadn’t complained much at the time because she’d leapt into his arms, and he’d had the chance of another snog and a grope as he had soothed away her fears.  
  
This time he doesn’t chide her for being an eedjit. Cedric Diggory lies lifeless on the ground. He must be dead, for surely no one – not just a Hufflepuff – would play such a cruel trick on parents who are screeching their grief to the heavens.  
  
Lavender clutches Seamus arm when Harry cries to anyone who’ll listen, “He’s back. He has returned. He did this.”   
  
Seamus doesn’t need to ask who Harry is talking about. Seamus isn’t surprised because if his parents had been murdered he’s pretty sure he’d want revenge, too. Yet _You-know-Who_ is gone, and sometimes Seamus just wishes Harry would accept that and get on with enjoying life.  
  
After a hurried, urgent conversation, Professor Dumbledore instructs all the prefects to take control and lead the pupils back to their various houses. He will speak to the school later, but for now -- Seamus sees the Headmaster’s eyes drift to the scene of devastation -- he is needed elsewhere.  
  
“Seamus,” whispers Lavender. “I don’t want to go back.”  
  
He understands, he thinks. He doesn’t want to go back, either. If they return to the common room – to their dormitories – then everyone is going to talk and he doesn’t want to do that ... not yet.  
  
He takes her hand as they filter down the wooden steps. Ahead of him, Dean has his arm around Parvati’s shoulders. Neville is staring ahead, saying nothing. Ron and Hermione are stock still, unmoving, as they wait to see what will happen to Harry.   
  
“This way,” Seamus murmurs to Lavender, pulling her to the side and down a darkened path that he knows leads to the greenhouses. “We’ll wait out here for a while and ... uh ... talk if you want to.” He says that last bit wistfully, praying that she doesn’t want to talk because, Merlin help him, he doesn’t think he can handle talking about anything yet.  
  
Lavender shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk ...” She stumbles on something, and bending down to pick her up, Seamus sees she’s tripped over an old broomstick. He picks it up and props it against the wall, wondering why someone would bother to keep such a thing, unless Sprout uses it to stake her plants.   
  
Seamus takes her in his arms, offering her tender comfort, a hug, and soft kisses that brush away the tears now falling from her eyes. “Do you want to go back?” he asks, awkwardly aware that he’s rubbish at feelings and all that malarkey. “Maybe Parvati will help.”  
  
She doesn’t reply except to draw him closer, kissing him fiercely with a need he’s never known from her. Subconsciously, he understands why. In the midst of death, of all this numbness, she wants to feel something. But he can’t admit that to himself and instead takes her reaction as a reason to carry on. She wants this as much as he does.   
  
“What’s that?” she whispers. “Seamus, there’s someone here.”  
  
Looking around, Seamus can see nothing. He pulls away from her slightly, wondering if this is an excuse and she wants to stop before they go too far. “I can’t see anyone,” he replies softly. “It’s probably just a gnome. You know, Sprout said there was an infestation recently. Perhaps that’s why the broom’s here – beat the little bastards into submission.”  
  
“Yes,” she breathes, and starts to giggle before biting her lip, guilt apparent in her eyes. “It’ll be a gnome.”  
  
Then she pulls him to the ground, but doesn’t resume kissing him.   
  
He knows he should ask what’s wrong, but it’s a pathetic question. He knows what’s wrong. Diggory is dead and life isn’t the same anymore.  
  
“Do you think he’s really back?”  
  
The question surprises him. It shouldn’t, yet suddenly he understands why Lavender doesn't want to go back to the common room. She’s scared and Gryffindors are supposed to be brave.  
  
“No,” he reassures her. “He died a long time ago. Harry’s just confused.”  
  
She nods and tried to smile, but her bottom lip is trembling and _still_ the tears are falling from her eyes.   
  
Very gently, he lowers her onto the grass and props himself up on one elbow. With his thumb, he wipes away her tears and then kisses her on the mouth. Her lips part and her arms reach up for him. She kisses him back, with a ferocity borne of rage at the unfairness of it all.   
  
It is clumsy. It is awkward. But they are together this first time and absolutely agree that they want this to happen. Seamus feels a brief flicker of triumph wave though him as he rushes on to his climax. He’s done it. He’s not a virgin. He’s a man and he’s only fifteen.   
  
Below him, Lavender is staring at the sky, a sob catching in her throat.  
  
 _Oh Jesus, I hurt her_ , he thinks and starts to apologise. She blinks back a tear and smiles up at him.   
  
“I love you,” he mutters, and assures her that next time it’ll be better.  
  
A week later, Lavender finishes with Seamus.   
  
He is not surprised, for nothing that good ever lasts.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Theodore Nott avoids Malfoy’s eye when Potter returns. He hears Potter’s claim that the Dark Lord is back and knows that for many in Slytherin, this is the news they have been waiting for. Theo cannot look at any of them. He can only watch as Diggory’s parents clutch at their son. His eyes bore into them as he wills Diggory to move, to just twitch slightly with life, give them all hope that Potter made a mistake and _he_ has not returned.   
  
But Cedric isn’t moving. Theo cannot bring him back to life, not even if he stares and stares at him, or tears the ‘Support Krum’ rosette off his robe to reveal the yellow and black ribbons underneath.  
  
Beside him, Zabini looks disconnected from the scene. Theo has never been sure about his dorm mate. He is a loner, like Theo, but not from necessity. Zabini neither wants nor needs company. He is aloof from them all. Theo would like to be like him. He’d like to not need people, but sometimes, just sometimes, he has this overwhelming urge to confide his thoughts... only there is no one who will listen.   
  
Professor Snape instructs his prefects to escort all the Slytherins back to the dungeons. Although some (notably Malfoy and his stooges) want to linger, drinking in the scene, they all leave in an orderly manner.   
  
Theodore follows them. He is not a person who disobeys orders, but he’s also someone who is easily overlooked (unlike Malfoy and Zabini, who are very noticeable even as lowly fourth years). So when he hears a voice whispering inside him that he needs to find somewhere private, he listens and slinks away.  
  
No one notices. No one calls him back or tugs at his robe sleeve to ask what is wrong. He trails behind another band of students. They are crying, and as he focuses on them, he realises they are Hufflepuffs, entitled to their sorrow. One of them, a stocky blonde boy that Theo thinks is Ernie MacMillan, has a comforting arm around a short, blonde girl with her hair in a thick plait. Theo wonders if they’re going out together. He can’t remember if they went to the Yule Ball – there is little he remembers about that night, except for the sight of the Champions dancing.   
  
Ernie, if it is Ernie, glances behind and catches his eye, but Theo huddles further into his hood, afraid that the Hufflepuff boy will read his mind and sense his forbidden grief.   
  
When they get to the greenhouses, Theo sidesteps away from them all and disappears into the darkness. He is alone now. No one will discover him, and he can cry his heart out without fear of scorn or horror.  
  
  
 _It was at the Yule Ball that Theo discovered who he was. Not just the son of a prominent figure who swore before the Wizengamot that he had never been a Death Eater. Not just a Slytherin whose mother had died when he was just a boy. Not just a pupil who excelled at most subjects, showing a prodigious talent in Charms that only the Mudblood Granger could beat.  
  
As he watched the Champions lead their partners onto the dance floor, he laughed along with Daphne at Potter’s ineptitude and Krum’s flat footedness. He didn’t disagree when Pansy said Krum must be shortsighted if he really thought Granger worth taking to the Ball. He even made a joke about Davis, who looked utterly out of his depth with the Beauxbatons girl, who everyone knew was part Veela.  
  
Then the dance ended and something inside of Theo gave way. As Diggory bent his head to kiss Chang, his fingers softly caressing her neck, Theo felt a truth rage inside him.   
  
He wanted that kiss. He tried to block the thought, but it continued in his mind, and suddenly everything fell into place.   
  
That night his dreams ravaged him. All he saw was Cedric: whooping with joy when the Goblet spewed out his name, facing the dragon, smiling as he kissed Chang. He woke with a start, in a sweat, but as he tried to get back to sleep, his mind drifted to the dangerous realms of fantasy. Theo alone with Cedric, touching his lips to his and feeling the older boy’s hands on his back._  
  
  
He hears someone stumble, and peering around, spots Finnigan and Brown. They always seem to be sneaking around. He’s seen them before snogging in deserted classrooms. They’re very tactile, another couple brought together by the Ball.   
  
Theo slumps against the wall, closing his eyes tight and holding his hands over his ears as he tries to block out the animal sounds of Finnigan screwing Brown. It repulses him to his core that they are sneaking out for _this_ when Cedric is dead, but at least it’s not the sound of Chang screaming...   
  
Potter has told the world that _he_ is back. Theo knows this is true, and his heart starts thudding inside of him. He will have to make a choice soon. His father will expect him to follow his path, but Theo wants to make his own way. He wishes he had the courage of Cedric – or even Potter – but he fears retribution and scorn far more than his own regret.   
  
Finnigan and Brown finish their crude coupling and leave, but Theo stays where he is. The stars are shining and the night is warm. He won’t be missed if he decides to stay out here.  
  
He never is.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
After everyone has gone, Hagrid stands alone, balling his damp handkerchief into his fist. He isn’t crying now, but his mind is a whirl with mixed feelings of unutterable sadness and exultant relief because Cedric is dead, but Harry has escaped from _You-know-Who_ – again.  
  
He believes Harry... Hagrid always knew that _he’d_ come back. So much wickedness in one man can never just disappear.   
  
He wonders what happened. He knows Professor Dumbledore is a busy man, so he hasn’t asked him ‘how’ yet. He doesn’t need to ask ‘why’. Evil doesn’t need a reason. It just is.   
  
Professor Dumbledore will tell him, he’s sure of that. For all his greatness and fancy words, Dumbledore has never looked down on Hagrid and has entrusted him with many secrets, so Hagrid does not begrudge his silence now. If the Headmaster needs him, he will call.  
  
Hagrid hadn’t known Diggory. At least he hadn’t known him well, not as a pupil. But the lad had always been courteous, unlike some of his classmates. His girlfriend, well, that’s a different matter; Hagrid knows the Ravenclaws laugh at him. He’s not their idea of a proper professor, after all. He doesn’t mind that much. He’s slowly learning his worth, and it’s not wrapped up in musty books or parchment.   
  
_What if it was my fault_? The thought floats unbidden into his mind. He tries to banish it, but it’s there again. He made the maze. He constructed it with magic, and he is not allowed a wand. He’s not allowed to do magic. He is dangerous; the Ministry say so. He is also not very _good_ at magic. He can grow things, and he can take care of animals, but anything other than a simple magic spell is beyond him.  
  
Taking out his handkerchief, he blows his nose and wipes his eyes as the guilt still gnaws at him.   
  
  
_He shouldn’t have used magic for the hedges. At least ... he should have asked for help and not taken it on by himself. But the other Professors were busy devising the traps inside, and so he’d nodded in agreement when Professor Dumbledore suggested he take charge of the construction.  
  
Professor Sprout had given him the seeds. She’d said they’d grow in time, but he’d also applied his own touch of magic in the form of a potion he’d asked Professor Snape for.   
  
“Ter make the hedges thicker,” he’d explained. Snape had raised one eyebrow, but had given him a powder to dissolve in water. _  
  
  
Perhaps the hedges hadn't sealed properly. Perhaps that’s how _You-know-Who_ had got through and snatched them... no... Harry had said something about a Portkey. And not even ‘he’ could Apparate onto the grounds of Hogwarts.   
  
The hedges that he had grown with such pride, pleased to be a part of this final task, mock him now. Despite the trauma of the evening, they stand undamaged in front of him, uncaring of the horror they masked from view.   
  
And all at once, Hagrid knows what he must do. This gross monument must be razed to the ground. He strides over to the nearest hedge and starts to pull with his bare hands. The firm roots don’t want to give, but against the colossal strength of his heartbreak they come adrift. He strikes again and again, tearing into the shrubs, uncaring that his hands are soon a mass of blood and thorns and tearing flesh. He feels pain, but he does not care. This is nothing.   
  
“Hagrid.”  
  
He stops, unsure who exactly is calling him. But as he turns he sees him standing close.  
  
“Professor,” he says, nodding as he steps back from the hedges. “Thought I should make a start. They won’t want ter see this in the morning.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly,” Professor Flitwick replies, his voice sounding thick, as if he has a cold. “I’d like to help.”  
  
Hagrid bends down and grasps the thick, woody stems of the bush in his way. “That won’t be necessary, Professor. I can deal with this.”  
  
“With magic, I could make this disappear in minutes,” Flitwick observes, but he makes no move to use his wand.  
  
Not turning, Hagrid continues his work. “Magic killed him,” he mutters. “I want to do this my way.”  
  
“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t interfere.”  
  
Hagrid can hear a desperate plea in Professor Flitwick’s voice and knows that he, too, wants something to keep him occupied.   
  
“Could yer dismantle the spells inside, Professor?” he asks, his voice rasping. “Only, I don’t know what traps yer all set.”  
  
Flitwick inclines his head slightly and smiles, albeit grimly. “Of course, Hagrid. Lead the way.”  
  
Together they work, dismantling this mausoleum of a maze, until the sun peeks over the horizon. And after the hedges have been uprooted, Professor Flitwick, with Hagrid’s permission, levitates the foliage to the forest.   
  
They both turn to survey the scene. The earth lies in mounds, the path of the maze for all to see, a sorry reminder of a competition that ended in death.  
  
Then Flitwick raises his wand and flicks his wrist almost lazily. Hagrid watches as a soft breeze ripples over the arena and effortlessly evens out the surface.  
  
 _Life goes on,_ he wants to say, but it’s too soon to think of life, not when the spectre of the golden boy of Hogwarts, lost forever in the maze of death, encompasses their world.


End file.
